speaker switch.
Rig for depth charges! Rig for depth charges!
The boat came alive as all hands went into action, stowing gear and dogging hatches, involuntarily glancing at the overhead, fear swelling inside.
Right full rudder, make your depth two hundred feet.
Mcconnell paused. Shit...
The captain looked at Houston as the depth charge went off.
KAWOOOMPH!
The Tennessee shuddered violently. Galley pans crashed wildly to the deck in the officers' wardroom.
Sonuvabitch, Houston swore as Mcconnell now ordered a lower depth for the submarine.
Take her to three hundred feet. Rudder amidship, Mcconnell ordered as he completed the second 90-degree turn, placing the Tennessee on her original course.
How much water under the keel. Bob? Mcconnell asked the navigator, Lt.
Comdr. Robert Cromwell.
Forty fathoms, sir.
Do you think the Connie heard us. Skipper? Houston asked as the Trident plunged toward the ocean floor.
' We'll know in a few minutes. I can't believe this, Mcconnell said as he watched the depth gauge level at 300 feet. The Tennessee was only 140 feet from the bottom.
Load and arm four fish, Mcconnell quietly ordered the officer of the deck.
If they drop anything else, Mcconnell looked at Houston, we'll take out the goddamned ship. The helos will be as good as finished.
They'll have to run for land or take a bath.
Defcon One (1989)
USS CONSTELLATION
The Combat Information Center had heard the radio transmission from the Tennessee. The last few words were garbled and had to be enhanced and repeated several times before the word attack was discernable.
The task force commander aboard Constellation, Rear Adm. Benjamin E.Thompson, had been concerned about the lack of communication with the Tennessee. He now realized why Mcconnell had missed a predetermined check-in. The admiral immediately launched the Combat Air Patrol.
Thompson watched the second F-14 Tomcat accelerate down the forward starboard catapult, rotate sharply, then bank steeply to rendezvous with his leader.
Admiral, your patch to CINCPAC is open, Cmdr. Steve Tyson, Thompson's aide, said as he handed the admiral a handset.
The message was scrambled and transmitted via satellite to Pearl Harbor, where the commander-in-chief of the Pacific Reel was based.
Admiral Jones, Ben Thompson, the task force commander announced.
Ben, this is Joe Lindsey, Vice Adm. Joseph Benton Lindsey replied.
The admiral is in Tripler undergoing gallbladder surgery. The doctors said it couldn't be postponed. I'm acting at the present time.
We've got a confrontation brewing here, sir, and I recommend we go on alert, Thompson paused momentarily, the Tennessee radioed she was under attack.
Under attack? the acting was incredulous.
Yes, sir, replied Thompson.
How long ago, Ben?
Nine minutes. Admiral. The CAP is airborne, two Tomcats, and we've got a Viking enroute. As you know, sir, the Tennessee was in their kitchen cabinet off Sakhalin and most probably detected before they cleared the Kurils.
Thompson wished Jones were on the line. He had served under the four-star admiral twice in his career and knew Jones to be a decisive and intelligent leader.
How far is the Tennessee from your position, Ben? Lindsey asked, looking at a detailed wall map indicating the relative position of American Pacific Fleet ships, along with Russian surface ships. The pictorial display was updated regularly using reconnaissance satellites and routine position reports.
About two hundred fifty miles. The Fourteens will be overhead the Tennessee in approximately twelve minutes, sir.
Thompson wanted answers, not questions.
Okay, Ben, keep me informed. I will alert Washington.
The global situation is heating up. We just received word that one of the Eisenhower's escorts, the Mississippi, accidentally ran over a Soviet submarine early this morning. Lindsey looked over at the Top Secret message lying on his desk.
They sink it? Thompson asked, wondering what the Russians had in mind for
Rig for depth charges! Rig for depth charges!
The boat came alive as all hands went into action, stowing gear and dogging hatches, involuntarily glancing at the overhead, fear swelling inside.
Right full rudder, make your depth two hundred feet.
Mcconnell paused. Shit...
The captain looked at Houston as the depth charge went off.
KAWOOOMPH!
The Tennessee shuddered violently. Galley pans crashed wildly to the deck in the officers' wardroom.
Sonuvabitch, Houston swore as Mcconnell now ordered a lower depth for the submarine.
Take her to three hundred feet. Rudder amidship, Mcconnell ordered as he completed the second 90-degree turn, placing the Tennessee on her original course.
How much water under the keel. Bob? Mcconnell asked the navigator, Lt.
Comdr. Robert Cromwell.
Forty fathoms, sir.
Do you think the Connie heard us. Skipper? Houston asked as the Trident plunged toward the ocean floor.
' We'll know in a few minutes. I can't believe this, Mcconnell said as he watched the depth gauge level at 300 feet. The Tennessee was only 140 feet from the bottom.
Load and arm four fish, Mcconnell quietly ordered the officer of the deck.
If they drop anything else, Mcconnell looked at Houston, we'll take out the goddamned ship. The helos will be as good as finished.
They'll have to run for land or take a bath.
Defcon One (1989)
USS CONSTELLATION
The Combat Information Center had heard the radio transmission from the Tennessee. The last few words were garbled and had to be enhanced and repeated several times before the word attack was discernable.
The task force commander aboard Constellation, Rear Adm. Benjamin E.Thompson, had been concerned about the lack of communication with the Tennessee. He now realized why Mcconnell had missed a predetermined check-in. The admiral immediately launched the Combat Air Patrol.
Thompson watched the second F-14 Tomcat accelerate down the forward starboard catapult, rotate sharply, then bank steeply to rendezvous with his leader.
Admiral, your patch to CINCPAC is open, Cmdr. Steve Tyson, Thompson's aide, said as he handed the admiral a handset.
The message was scrambled and transmitted via satellite to Pearl Harbor, where the commander-in-chief of the Pacific Reel was based.
Admiral Jones, Ben Thompson, the task force commander announced.
Ben, this is Joe Lindsey, Vice Adm. Joseph Benton Lindsey replied.
The admiral is in Tripler undergoing gallbladder surgery. The doctors said it couldn't be postponed. I'm acting at the present time.
We've got a confrontation brewing here, sir, and I recommend we go on alert, Thompson paused momentarily, the Tennessee radioed she was under attack.
Under attack? the acting was incredulous.
Yes, sir, replied Thompson.
How long ago, Ben?
Nine minutes. Admiral. The CAP is airborne, two Tomcats, and we've got a Viking enroute. As you know, sir, the Tennessee was in their kitchen cabinet off Sakhalin and most probably detected before they cleared the Kurils.
Thompson wished Jones were on the line. He had served under the four-star admiral twice in his career and knew Jones to be a decisive and intelligent leader.
How far is the Tennessee from your position, Ben? Lindsey asked, looking at a detailed wall map indicating the relative position of American Pacific Fleet ships, along with Russian surface ships. The pictorial display was updated regularly using reconnaissance satellites and routine position reports.
About two hundred fifty miles. The Fourteens will be overhead the Tennessee in approximately twelve minutes, sir.
Thompson wanted answers, not questions.
Okay, Ben, keep me informed. I will alert Washington.
The global situation is heating up. We just received word that one of the Eisenhower's escorts, the Mississippi, accidentally ran over a Soviet submarine early this morning. Lindsey looked over at the Top Secret message lying on his desk.
They sink it? Thompson asked, wondering what the Russians had in mind for
Similar Books
It's Always Darkest Before the Fridge Door Opens: Enjoying the Fruits of Middle Age
Phil Callaway, Martha O. Bolton
